Tom Bombadil and The Little Fish
by CrayonMentality
Summary: Harry Potter is one again on the train station where he met Dumbledore after his final encounter with Voldemort. Only this time, he accidentally takes the wrong train and ends up somewhere entirely unexpected. Nobody is happy about this. REFORMATTING/WIP.
1. Potions Wonder Boy

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Chapter One- 

Potions Wonder Boy

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Disclaimer: This all belongs to J. Rowling and J.R.R Tolkein- I'm just borrowing them.

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For the second time in his life, Harry found himself standing upon the platform of a train station, which was disturbingly reminiscent of Kings Cross. The only difference was that this time the place was considerably busier and he found himself wondering whether it was really just an extended metaphor. He also hadn't arrived after an epic encounter with an evil Dark Lord.

No, this time it was an exploding cauldron that had defeated Harry Potter, Head of the Department of Aurors and prior to his now very dead state- The Boy Who Lived. It was all very annoying. He hadn't gone near one of the things for years, and then when he does- "BWAM!"

Years of hard work, defeating Voldemort and surviving the woeful time when his children had been going through the Terrible Twos were wasted. Great, they would never let him live this one down. Snape was definitely laughing in his grave, he'd probably mock Harry when he saw him. Would he be here?

He might be. Harry didn't hate the man anymore, but he definitely wasn't fond of him either.

Oh gods, Ginny was going to kill him. She _had_ threatened to throw that cauldron out countless times, and to intimately harm him if she found him tinkering with it. Or in the same room as it. Or looking at it. Thinking about it was out of the question. Should would know. Somehow, she always knew.

And he just had to blow himself up on the day he promised to take Lilly Luna to her ballet lessons. Damn. Hopefully the silver lining would be that his death could serve as a spiritual enlightenment upon her quest to permanently deform her feet. Just maybe, and that would be nice. Make him feel useful.

He could practically see the headlines now, front page of the Prophet- "Hung Over Saviour Commits Suicide". It would probably be used as part of an education class on the Dangers of Alcohol at Hogwarts for years after. How embarrassing. Still, it might serve as some conciliation to Hermione, if her he was one the curriculum and not just stuck in the library books_. _Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, to be precise. _  
_

The train station was teeming with other people- many looking a little lost, in a slightly dishevelled state. Although none looked very...dead. That is, there weren't any tremendously old people hanging around, finally at peace, or people with missing limbs or pieces hanging off of them. Harry assumed those sorts of things were repaired in the afterlife, self-consciously patting his sides confirmed the sweater he'd put on that morning was now whole, which felt nothing like the burning flesh he could last remember.

There were also greeting parties, some people even had boards with last names on like in cheesy films, (which he of course _did not_ watch being a mature, manly kind of man). Individuals standing around, with gloomy expressions on their faces and wandering aimlessly like jellyfish would suddenly perk up when they spotted someone familiar.

Although, there didn't seem to be anyone waiting for him.

When he was younger this might have given him a twang of hurt and disappointment but now he shrugged it off with no more than a grumbled, "Ungrateful gits". It was odd, the longer he was here...the more hazy he felt, like his emotions were standing a few metres away and not really trying. Maybe some would find it pleasant, but it was beginning to make him increasingly claustrophobic. He wondered if it was a mechanism in place to prevent hysterical outbursts, or whether it was a natural side effect?

There was really no reason to wait around and listen to people desperately searching through their luggage, worrying about where they left their ticket or reminiscing with a loved one. So he boarded the train in front of him, which was pleasantly quiet compared to the others. He didn't give much thought as to why it would be quieter. After all, everyone here was dead so they were all going to same place.

Right?

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A/N: This story is very short, amateur and purely for fun.

*I'm currently carrying out a huge overhaul here, since I decided I really hate lines mid chapter. If you've already been reading this then things might look really weird. It might read a bit odd too, since it's been such a long time since I did any work on this.

The overhaul is the only way I can think of too motivate myself to finish this now I've made a commitment to it. Thanks so much for your support, if I forget to reply to a review it doesn't mean I don't appreciate because I really, really do. Of course, if I make everyone hate this then I'm really sorry but I have to complete it even if I'm the only one still interested. :)


	2. Crosswords and Marbles

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Chapter Two-

Crosswords and Marbles

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Disclaimer: This all belongs to J. Rowling and J.R.R Tolkein- I'm just borrowing them.

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"Wrong!" said Dumbledore happily. He was sitting on a bench, next to Snape and staring intently over the mans shoulder and at the book he was holding. Strangling was more like it, he had it grasped in the death grip of the permanently bad-tempered. Although that could also just be karma. If you go around being grumpy, it will come and mess with your crosswords.

"What is wrong with you?" snapped Snape, glaring at the brightly dressed wizard.

"You can't just shout out single words, it isn't the proper way to start a conversation."

"The word-"

"And don't look at what I'm reading!"

The after life had done nothing to tone down Dumbledore's dress sense, and nor had it substantially affected Snape's typically cheerful demeanour. They did look a bit different, Dumbledore had red hair rather than the grey everyone had gotten used to since he had been at least one hundred and fifty...forever. Snape had fared substantially worse, and resembled a gangly teenager, with a similar temperament.

Dumbledore just stared at him over the rims of his spectacles.

"That word on the crossword. You got it wrong. Harry Potter isn't the answer to '3 down, someone really annoying'."

"Well, I haven't fini-" he grumbled, shuffling away and starting to shut the book.

"It doesn't even fit!" Dumbledore cried, sounding pleased with himself. "It should be Amy Seru."

"It's in pencil, for goodness sake", Snape grumbled and shut the puzzle book.

He eventually asked, "And who is Amy Seru?"

"I'm led to believe they are a strange cult of evil teenage girls." Albus replied, as if it was a comprehensive answer on all there was to know about the illusive and dreaded cult. He settled back onto the bench, which was strangely clean and graffiti free, and folded his arms.

Snape stared at him, certain that after all these years he had finally and completely cracked. Lost all his marbles, they had mercilessly rolled off never to be found again. Any moment now he would start drooling…the contemplation over his former employees sanity was broken by a woman's voice.

"Where is he?" said a motherly looking redhead impatiently. She was wearing simple robes, and her pleasing face was currently cloaked by the concern she was clearly feeling.

"Don't worry, he'll be here," replied her husband reassuringly and with absolute certainty. He didn't actually feel nearly as calm as he was projecting to everyone else. If his son got on the wrong train…well, he didn't know what would happen. Was that even possible?

"Yeah, it'll be fine." Sirius casually agreed. He turned his head sharply when someone with very familiar messy hair walked onto the train. The one opposite the small crowd waiting for him.

"Oh shit!"

Dumbledore stood up in one neat, swift movement. "This is most unusual", was his only comment on the matter.

"Typical," Snape muttered resignedly, and returned to his book. The others could shout as much as they liked, it wouldn't do them any good.

Potter never listened to anyone else.

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	3. Down the Plughole

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Chapter Three

Down the Plughole

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Disclaimer: This all belongs to J. Rowling and J.R.R Tolkein- I'm just borrowing them.

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As the train rolled off, Harry was starting to regret his choice of compartment. It had turned out that the train was busier than it looked from the outside and he had ended up walking all the way to the back of the train. The girl already sitting in the last compartment had seemed normal enough despite the way she kept staring into a handheld mirror. So he had sat down and started reading his newspaper.

Which had turned out to be a mistake. She was definitely not normal. And she did not stop talking.

Harry sighed, it seemed he was pre-destined to share his compartments with strange people. It had started with a gangly ginger, Harry snickered when he thought of the outraged look Ron would have if he heard that. Then there was Lupin, who was a werewolf. Nothing strange about _that._ Now there was her.

"I'm an elf, you know." She giggled, and Harry inched back in his chair when she fluttered her abnormally long eyelashes at him.

"Really?" he asked, disinterested. She didn't look like any house elf he had ever seen. Very tall, compared to him anyway and flowing locks of hair so red it had to be charmed. Or possibly made by those muggle dyes he had seen his aunt use. Maybe she was confused and just meant that she really liked cleaning?

It would make sense. After all, she didn't seem too bright.

"Hi, my name's Violette Angelique Gabriella LeLonde!" the strange girl said happily, and right next to him. Harry jumped, startled and confused as to when she had moved there. Death had definitely made his reflexes sloppy but what use did he have for them now?

"That's nice…" He said, folding the newspaper and edging towards the relative safety of the door.

"I have to, you know- use the loo," he said, gesturing in the direction of the toilet- unnecessarily as the girl had gone back to simply staring at her reflection in the mirror.

Harry shut the door quickly, and leaned against it.

"Wow. She was worse than Gilderoy Lockhart," he muttered, shaking his head and started walking down the corridor.

Going to bathroom was another mistake, and Harry was shocked he had survived as long as he did if he made bad decisions this often. There was a long line of girls, similar to the one he had left back in the compartment. Although some here were sobbing hysterically on the floor and others were bullying plainer girls. And they all seemed to be going in the bathroom and not returning.

Harry ignored them, and walked in to the men's that was all but deserted in comparison.

The reflection in the mirror was more mature than it been last time he had been here, his face slightly lined with age although his hair wasn't greying yet. Harry had thought that people might revert back to when they were younger once they died but apparently not. Unless he didn't "count" as one of the dead yet. It made sense though, who really wanted to spend, potentially an eternity in an old body?

He turned the tap on and splashed his face with water. Then something very strange happened.

Ultimately, it must have been the droplets of water feeling an undeniable pull back to their original source that cause what happened next. They surely must have conversed, as much as water atoms can with the ones in Harry's high water content body and ganged up on him. So Harry found himself, against his will being pulled, distorted and twisted to enable him to be moved through the plughole without being…obliterated. That doesn't mean it was comfortable though, far from it.

More water pushed down upon him, as he arrived in a rather inappropriate and unfortunate place. Disorientated, Harry pushed in the direction that he hoped was up and tried to manoeuvre in the cold and fast water. He broke the surface, gasping and sincerely wishing he had taken the time to learn how to swim. At least the Dursley's would be pleased, he thought darkly.

The water was about to encompass him once again, when a hand grabbed the back of his robes and pulled him out of the river. He probably would have been more grateful if not for the amount of water in his lungs and the fact that the stranger effectively strangled him with his own clothes. After coughing up most of the water, Harry rolled onto his back and opened an eye blearily to see yellow boots by his head.

"So what does Old Tom find here? A little fish taking a swim in the Withywindle River?" came a cheerful and carefree voice, which then continued, "No, not the river- you come from the Outside, little fish but not like the other. No, not like the other…"

Harry stood up, shivering despite the warmth of the sun through his soaked robes. "I'm Harry, and I'm not a little fish. Who are you?"

"Eldest, that's what I am ... Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn ... he knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless — before the Dark Lord came from Outside as well." The strange…man said.

Harry wasn't sure that this person really was human but he didn't know what else to call him. And what the man had just said hadn't made much sense to him. Harry shuddered, he hadn't had much luck with any of the Tom's he had known so far and he was far from keen to stay in any place with a Dark Lord.

He flinched when Tom clapped him on the arm and said, "Come now friend, to the House of Tom Bombadil. We will go to Goldberry and get you some dry clothes."

Not knowing what else to do, Harry followed. He was still dripping water and didn't feel nearly as cheerful as the sprightly figure in the blue jacket and yellow boots, who danced ahead singing odd rhymes.

"Keep up, little fish!"

Harry groaned, and started walking faster. He absolutely refused to skip. And if Tom tried to get him to make up rhymes, he swore…

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	4. Bubbles and Hexes

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Chapter Four

Bubbles and Hexes

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Disclaimer: This all belongs to J. Rowling and J.R.R Tolkein- I'm just borrowing them.

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The cloaked figure strode swiftly up to the red- brick, rather derelict looking building.

They ignored the "Closed for Refurbishment" sign with the air of someone who knows better and began to inspect the glass window. Anyone who may have been watching would think they had been working too hard when they saw her whispering to the mannequin on display and then walking straight through the window.

The woman ran through the reception, filled with rickety furniture and outdated magazines- as all waiting areas are legally required to do so. The unfortunate, yet not fatally injured patients who were waiting to be treated betrayed this particular reception as a magical one. A young girl, possibly around five with blonde pig-tails was hiccupping. With every squeak, she would cause hundreds of multi-coloured bubbles to float up into the air.

"Poor dear," said one middle-aged woman with a stripy tail.

"Oh, I know. You'll be okay won't you, sweetie?" The girls mother replied, giving her a one-armed hug.

"She drank the washing up liquid!" She exclaimed, looking embarrassed.

Ginny looked away, it was painful to watch when her own family was possibly pulled apart at the seams. She could kill her husband. Oh, she knew she should have thrown that ridiculous cauldron away. It was poorly made to begin, out of some strange material and it's only redeeming feature that it changed colour from red through to blue in a pretty fashion. She was almost convinced it was meant to be used as one of those..thingies. Lava Lights? Lits?

"Cauldron Explosion. Where is he?" she growled at the Welcome Witch, who was manner was less than amiable, except now she looked rather anxious in front of the irate woman.

"Ground Floor: Artefact Accident," She replied, baring her teeth in the reassuring fashion that had been an important part of her training.

"Have a nice day, Mrs Potter," the plump, blonde with was ignored.

Ginny walked off down the corridor, only to be apprehended by a man wearing really far too much lime green for any one person. It was too much lime green for a host of people, even. Such was the uniform St. Mungo's Hospital. Regrettably. She tried to look at his name badge as subtly as possible, "Helbert...Spleen?"

He looked delighted, "Oh, you've seen me around? Maybe you've read my colomn in the Daily Prophet?"

She blinked. "Um no, actually we don't buy that newspaper."

It had written more than enough rubbish about Harry in the past to deserve sueing for their every last sickle. No, they were strictly a Quibbler household. The unfortunate side effect to this moral decision was that, well, they never knew what was going on. Spleen didn't look pleased by this information. In fact, he seemed especially displeased.

"In that case, " He said flatly, straightening up and narrowing his eyes, "It's _Professor_ Helbert Spleen, thank you very much".

"Fine then! I just want to know where my husband is," she snapped at him. "Is he _dead_?!"

Spleen immediately sprang into a professional demeanour, "You're looking for Mr Potter, yes? Come right this way".

They stopped just before a miniature herd of what seemed to be..."Reporters? Here?"

Ginny gaped at Spleen in disbelief. He looked back at her helplessly.

He seemed embarrassed enough for her not to hit him, "If it's any conciliation, your husband wasn't dead last time I was in the ward. Although the reporters were rather stubborn when asked to leave".

"We shall see", Ginny replied grimly. Apparently a few Bat-Bogey hexes wouldn't go amiss.

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AN: The chapters have all been moved around and stuff. I hope it hasn't caused too much confusion, this one is completely new.

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	5. Tom Bombadil

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Chapter Five-

Tom Bombadil

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Disclaimer: This all belongs to J. Rowling and J.R.R Tolkein- I'm just borrowing them.

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It became difficult to follow the path, which was twining and confusing. It was annoying enough to make you want to simply blow the trees out the way and make a clear path, Harry decided as he swatted away _another_ insect irritably.

The forest reminded him a lot of the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, with the way strange furtive noises ran either side of them and there seemed to be queer gnarled and knobbly faces that gloomed dark against the twilight. He almost expected a centaur to pop up and harass him for being so disgustingly human. More than once Harry had to wonder whether or not this whole thing wasn't real- if he had just fallen asleep and dreamt it.

Then he was reminded of Dumbledore telling him, that just because it had taken place inside his head there was no reason it was any less real.

So, Harry decided it was best just to follow the old man who sang in a deep and glad voice ahead of him. Eventually the trees came to an end, the river murmured and flowed over a short fall in a spray of white foam. They stepped out of the forest and found a wide sweep of grass welling up before them.

The grass became short and smooth, and the path was well tended with stones bordering it. The house they walked towards strongly reminded Harry of an ideal he had only ever seen in picture books and stories. It was strangely like seeing Hogwarts for the first time, even though there were few physical resemblances between this place and the old castle.

Harry stumbled over the wide stone threshold, and saw a woman. Goldberry. It had to be the woman Tom had described as "river woman's daughter" and "willow-wand slender". In his half asleep and bewildered state caused by what could only be described as dimension hopping- Harry decided she was actually quite pretty. Then felt guilty.

What must Ginny be thinking right now?

"Enter, good guest."

The pretty woman said. Her long yellow hair rippled down her shoulders; her gown was green; green as young reeds, shot with silver like beads of dew; and her belt was of gold, shaped like a chain of flag-lilies set with the pale blue eyes of forget me-nots.

Harry glanced down at the robe he had put on that morning: originally green but now splattered with the potion that had proven lethal and it was even torn in places from his post-mortem attempts at drowning himself. He suddenly felt very, very scruffy.

He patted down his fly away hair, feeling embarrassed. He tried to think of a way to introduce himself whilst apologising at the same time without seeming a complete idiot. However before he could utter a single word, she ran towards him with her gown rustling in the wind.

"Come on," she laughed, pulling him into the house. "Fear nothing, for tonight you are under the roof of Tom Bombadil."

"Thanks," Harry said shortly but truly meaning it. Although he was tempted to mutter something about his only fear being insane old men who were a little too eccentric. After all, he hadn't all that many wonderful experiences with them. He had felt a lot better about the whole dying thing though since he had discretely searched his pockets on the journey to the house and discovered he still had his wand.

He felt rude about his greeting even when he felt like he could sleep for a month and still be tired. Luckily, Goldberry just laughed.

"So short-tongued!" she said, "Perhaps you are the mortal descendent of Old Man Willow?"

"Or maybe you are just tired?"

Of course I'm tired, Harry complained mentally. Her insane husband had made him walk what felt like the most he'd ever walked in his entire life. Or after life- whatever this was supposed to be.

And then before his foggy brain could even begin to wonder whom on earth this "Old Man Willow" was and how he was similar to him, Tom had started speaking again:

"Nay, this Little Fish doesn't even so much as whisper a song, Goldberry," he said and then raising his voice sung, "Tom! Your guests are tired and you had near forgotten!"

With that, Harry found himself going down a short passage and round a corner to a low room with a sloping roof. Harry dropped down onto the deep mattress and immediately slept like a log. He didn't even hear them wishing him a goodnight and pleasant sleep.

Harry woke up to find the wide earthen basins across the opposite wall had been filled sometime when he had been asleep. There were also robes at the end of his bed, green as grass and boots. He pulled them on before splashing his face with water.

The next few days passed without much incident. Harry was surprised that neither of his hosts subjected him to very much questioning, although he got the impression they both knew enough anyway. They were very strange. Harry was almost prepared to believe that they were the embodiment of natural forces, or something similar.

Tom sang a lot, as did Goldberry and he seemed to leave a lot of the time. He went to see a farmer often, one called Maggot. Harry had wrinkled his nose at the name but Tom clearly thought a lot of him. "There's earth under his old feet, and clay on his fingers; wisdom in his bones, and both his eyes are open," said Tom in his strange fashion.

Harry felt very inadequate hearing this. He was just a wizard, who had died and ended up in a river of all places. He shot Tom a glance that clearly asked: What's the point?

Tom looked straight back at him, his eyes saying: No plan of mine. Then again we all have our errands, don't we?

Harry sighed: errands. He would never be rid of the bloody things. Just for something to do, he trailed around after Tom a lot of the time. The enigma never seemed to mind when he did this, he would sing his rhymes and answer any questions Harry had in confusing ways. A lot of the time he would inform Harry of plants uses and where they could be found. Harry came to call these his, "Daily Herbology Lessons".

Just what he had always wanted. More school.

After a while, Harry concluded that Tom had to be a wizard. So he asked him.

"An Istari?" Tom had laughed. "What a strange one I would make. No, no- I think I shall leave wand waving to you, Little Fish."

"Tom is master, he doesn't use word spells. He merely uses commands."

Harry doubted he would get a firmer answer out of the man, so he settled on an easy to understand, simple fact. Tom just was. A lot. He never asked how Tom seemed to just know how he was a wizard. Or an Istari, as he liked to call them.

Tom had an Omniscience that was unsettling. It could only mean that he had installed those muggle CCTV cameras all over his house. Which was highly unlikely and bordering on the impossible as there didn't seem to be any electricity whatsoever. Or he was a very powerful being.

Since he was pretty certain that somewhere along the line he had _really_ pissed Fate off, Harry decided he didn't want to annoy Tom too much.

Not long after his arrival did Tom disappear entirely. He asked Goldberry who simply replied:

"Tom has left to find some friends, Little Fish. We had guests not long before you arrived and now they are greatly in need of aid."

She wasn't prepared to talk anymore, and as Harry didn't have any Veritaserum handy he left it at that. Would likely never have any again, actually. The whole death-via-exploding-cauldron parts had, it was reasonable to say put him off brewing for quite some time.

There would probably have been an awkward silence after the friends in peril bombshell. That is, if Harry hadn't pulled his clay cup towards himself and cast "Aguamenti" to fill it with cool water. It must have been something to do with her being a river woman's daughter, whatever _that_ was supposed to mean, because Goldberry thought this was the best thing since Tom's green stockings. Or sliced bread, whichever you happened to prefer.

She ooh-ed, and ah-ed over it and made him cast it again and again. He felt like a circus performer. As least he was of some use, eh?

After that, there was no stopping her. Goldberry had him fixing things all over the house, making him utilise all the house spells he had hated the first time he'd used them, let alone the fifty odd times over the past few days.

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